Turned out “success” wasn't a strong enough word – business was booming. It took off like a rocket. She managed the place as well as worked the bar for the first six months. It completely killed her college career, and almost caused Jameson to kill her. He didn't like her being gone so much. She eventually dropped out of school altogether, figuring she was doing well enough on her own anyway. And after one too many late nights, she decided to back off of working on the floor. Set some hours for herself. Took a vacation even, visited Sanders.
It was all going so well that by the following spring, she approached Jameson with the idea of opening a second bar. Something a little different. A little darker, sexier, and in a different part of town. His response was a hearty “no”, at first. But she had ways of convincing him, and it helped that she promised to keep the same hours. It took a couple months of begging, but she finally got her way.
“We should have a party.”
Jameson suggested it towards the end of the summer. It was shocking – Jameson never wanted to have a party. Never wanted to leave the house, and never wanted people to come over. Tate had been busy scouting new bars, and figured it was his way of getting her attention.
“What kind of party?” she asked.
“A special kind.”
“Oh god. I'm not ready for an orgy.”
“Prude.”
He thought it would be fun for one last hoorah, of sorts. The new bar, along with the old bar, would take up all her free time. It would be a while before they would be able to get out and get away, or anything like that; so why not have Sanders come home for a visit, and they could spend an evening in New York together?
Well, who could say no to that? Didn't seem like such a big deal.
Though she seemed to have forgotten that virtually everything Jameson did turned into a big deal, some way or another ...
*
“Can we please gooooo!?” Tate groaned at the foot of the stairs. It was an hour or so after the library incident, and still, Jameson was being tight lipped about their plans. Had only told her to be ready to go in an hour. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and it only took three or four hours to drive to New York. Seemed kind of early for dinner.
If they were going to dinner.
I hate surprises.
“Jesus, you're like a toddler,” Jameson grumbled, finally coming down the stairs.
“Well, I've been waiting down here for forever,” she pointed out. He rolled his eyes and turned his back to her.
“Ten minutes. It's been ten minutes since you came down here,” he corrected her. She smoothed out the material over his shoulders, then pulled the hem of his suit jacket into place.
“It feels like forever,” she tried to argue.
“Shut the fuck up or we won't be going anywhere.”
She skipped out the door behind him.
Sanders drove. It felt kind of strange, having him behind the wheel again, but he refused to ride as a passenger in almost any car he was in, so they let him drive. Tate didn't pay attention to where they were going, so she was surprised when they stopped at her bar. She stared for a second, taking in the neon “O'Shea's” sign.
“You brought me to work?” she asked. Jameson nodded, putting his hand on the small of her back.
“Yes.”
“You throw shitty parties.”
“Shut up.”
It turned out to be a surprise party. Jameson had arranged everything – the bar was closed, and there were drinks and enough food for everybody. Tate laughed and full on kissed him, to the point cat calls had to be issued to get her to let go of him.
She ate, she drank, and she most definitely made merry. Possibly too merry. Several cocktails and a couple shots later, Jameson announced it was time to go. They really were going to New York, and they would have to book it if they wanted to make it in time for their dinner reservations.
“Mmmm, how many hours does it take to get there?” Tate purred, leaning into him after they were in the car and on the freeway.
“We have about three left to go,” Jameson replied, loosening his tie a little. Tate ran her hand up and down it.
“What should we do to pass the time?” she asked softly, then nibbled on his ear lobe. He chuckled.
“I did just throw a party for you. I think you owe me,” he suggested. She laughed, then stretched one of her legs across his own.
“Oh really. And what do I owe you?” she asked, her voice husky as she raked her nails down his chest.
“Something big.”
“I think you owe me something big.”
“You can have that at the end of the night.”
“I want it now.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sanders is driving and you still haven't learned how to keep your mouth shut.”
Jameson had actually had the Bentley outfitted with a privacy window between the front and back of the car, but it wasn't entirely soundproof, and he was right; Tate wasn't quiet at the best of times. When she was tipsy, like she was right then, she wasn't able to keep quiet at all.
But he did point out that she couldn't make too much noise if her mouth was full. Before the thought was even fully voiced, she was on her knees, pulling his belt loose. She had him coming in record time.
Dinner was amazing. The best food, the most expensive champagne, and the two people she loved most in the world. Even Sanders had a couple glasses and was convinced to laugh more than a few times.